


Losing You

by kittykat2892



Category: HetaOni, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittykat2892/pseuds/kittykat2892
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another loop. A second chance.</p><p>While the nations come to understand more of their situation, the Thing becomes stronger. Russia and China find this out the hard way.</p><p>Originally posted on deviantArt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing You

Time stands still. Violet eyes focus on the monstrosity blocking the only exit out of the room. His hand grips the water faucet weapon so tight, his knuckles turn white and the metal ridges cut into his palm.

“Russia!”

The Asian voice cuts the silence, though neither the Russian nor the Thing move a muscle. Their eyes stay trained on the other, both knowing one second of distraction will lead to the needed advantage. Sweat trickles from Russia's hairline to the soiled scarf around his neck. The fabric, no longer pink but a deeper shade of red, scratches against his neck, coarse after an unfathomable amount of time spent in this living hell.

“America and England should be back by now, aru!”

Russia smiles despite the situation. China's adorable way of talking never fails to brighten his mood and plaster a smile to his lips. Staring down the Thing, Russia can't help but feel sorrowful knowing he will never be able to persuade China to become one with him. He would rather die than allow the Thing to touch one hair on China's head, and that realization sends a thrill through his fatigued body.

“They may not come back. Or time has shifted again. We are on our own for this moment, da?”

A strangled noise escapes China, but Russia feels the Chinese man's presence to his right. The fetid air stirs from the twirling motion of China's weapon as the dark-haired man steels himself for the seemingly impossible fight. What China doesn't know won't hurt him, but will give Russia the advantage he needs to beat the Thing and make sure China stays alive even if it's only a little longer.

Russia knows its weak spot, and China does not.

Impatient and bloodthirsty, the Thing attacks. China, taken unawares by the sudden movement, hesitates. Russia, on the other hand, takes his chance and meets the Thing head-on. The light-haired man ducks beneath a large, grey fist, uses the momentum behind his body to propel himself around and behind the Thing and connects his water pipe with the back of it's head.

An ear-splitting shriek comparable to nails on a chalkboard stuns Russia. Black, hatred-filled depths turn and meet Russia's pained violet orbs. The Thing's mouth twists into a horrid mockery of a grin, sharp teeth glinting under the overhead light while the Russian attempts to ignore the bloodstains on their enamel. Though he never felt much kinship for the other countries, fear of their abandonment keeping him at a safe distance, Russia can't bear the image of this Thing feasting on their bloody corpses.

Anger boils beneath his skin, his eyes flash and he flashes a dagger-sharp smile at the monster, raising his weapon in preparation for the beast's counter-attack. A shrill war-cry startles the Thing, literally making it flinch. Russia's eyes widen upon seeing China in mid-air, his weapon poised for an attack, hate and sorrow simmering behind his brown eyes.

Russia yells his warning too late – much too late for China to react. A grey arm as big as a small tree trunk swings around and catches China in the side of his ribs. The older nation screams in pain, though Russia can still hear the crunching of bone both when the Thing's arm connects and when China hits the wall. The cold nation growls, his ever-present smile disappearing in an instant. His hand blurs in the swing he presents to the grey-skinned creature.

The creature doesn't scream a second time. Russia's second attack matches the strength of his first, but the Thing expects the pain and fights through the searing feeling in its arm. Russia fluidly dances around the creature's attacks, dodging in and out of its range like a gnat, annoying the Thing just as much as the insect does a human.

A quick glance in China's direction settles Russia's rapidly beating heart. The dark-haired man struggles to regain his feet, using the wall behind him as leverage and stability. Blood seeps between China's lips and spills down his cheek from a cut on his forehead. The red liquid only accentuates the awakened, centuries old anger upon being treated like a rag doll.

His moment of distraction affords the Thing a cheap shot; its claws slash through Russia's coat and into his chest. Blood stains what remains of the coat around the wounds. The large man grits his teeth, tears pooling at the corner of his eyes from the pain and the feeling of something foreign scraping against bone. The Thing's lips curl into an animalistic grin. It's prey is wounded, which means victory and its spoils will shortly follow.

“You will find I am tough nut to crack,” Russia grits through clenched teeth. As much as his body wants to react by shutting down, he refuses to submit before he defeats the creature.

The Thing snarls and lunges. Russia once again begins the dance of death, but the breach of his pain threshold and blood loss from the monster's cheap shot affects his equilibrium. The large nation feels his left leg collapse. He gasps. He can't feel the floor beneath his knee. Russia uses his water pipe to replace his useless leg, though now he has no viable weapon. Crippled and wounded, he's nothing but a meat sack to the Thing's carnivorous eyes.

Russia pulls the blade from the water pipe sheath, light flashing off the shaking weapon. His dominant hand is free to attack, if only his body will cooperate long enough! He tries to attack the beast in one fell swoop just as the Thing's muscles bunch.

The scream echoing around the room can't be his. He doesn't sound like that, does he? He's not that badly hurt, right? It doesn't hurt as much as the agonized scream suggests. The Thing smirks and pulls Russia closer to its face. Putrid breath washes over the gagging Russian. His sword barely scrapes the creature's skull, and at such close-range, Russia can't embed the blade in its brain.

Then suddenly where there was a monster is just empty space. Russia's shoulder hits the floor, jumpstarting his nerve endings. He groans, rolls onto his back and notices China furiously attacking the Thing with no heed to style or training. Tears freely fall from the Chinese man's eyes. The surprised creature's reactions slow in response to the unadulterated fury emanating from the small man.

“Ch-China. The f-forehead,” Russia calls, but his weak voice goes unheard.

Agony shoots through Russia's abused and battered body, every forced movement stealing his already short breath. Somehow he ignores the pain, climbs to his feet. His eyes never waver from the two fighters. The Thing's surprise has ebbed in favor of rage – rage at its wounds, rage at China thwarting its feast.

China hits the ground, ducking a furious swipe. Time, that she-devil with bloody claws and gnashing jaws, slows so Russia can vividly see every second of China's mistake; when his foot slips in the warm blood drowning the floor, when his concentration breaks and his arms pinwheel, when the Thing roars in triumph.

Yet the slowing of time works both ways, granting Russia just enough time to grip the surge of adrenaline in his veins and knock China from the creature's range. China's horrified brown depths meet Russia's own calm violet orbs. He says where to attack the creature, where its weakness is located, and smiles just as brightly as he did the first time they met.

Scalding white explodes behind Russia's eyes. His nerve endings overload, his body collapses even as he is thrown across the room like a child. If he were a regular human, the surging pain would immediately kill him, though as a nation even in this hell on earth, he clings to life by the skin of his fingers. He tries to raise his head, to catch sight of his decades-long crush, but control of his pain-wracked body no longer belongs to him.

China's enraged scream pierces Russia's oversensitive ears, followed by a sickening thud and the Thing's death scream. Unable to move, Russia lays in ungodly, unearthly pain. Waves of pain seize his muscles, ultimately leading to bodily seizures. He tries to open his mouth, but his jaw locks and he feels himself bite his tongue. Tears swim to his nose and drop to the floor to mingle with blood – his blood.

“Ivan!”

China's loud, worried voice crashes against Russia. Soft, gentle hands slip beneath his chest and struggle to roll the larger nation to his back. Russia tries to smile at the sight of China's angelic face, but finds himself unable.

“Ivan, I...Maybe England...He has some healing magic, right, aru? W-We just need to wait on him and America!”

Russia notices a flood of tears cascading from China's brown eyes, but something's wrong. His eyebrows furrow ever so slightly. China catches the movement, and his eyes widen.

“W-What is it, aru? Ivan?”

No...He knows he's going to die – he expected death, but to take his sight first out of his five senses?

“I-Ivan?”

Russia would smile if he could to assure the older nation he's fine...But no, that's a blatant lie. He can see the panic, the shock, the raw pain in Yao's watery eyes even as his sight fades first to light hues, then to shades of grey, and finally to nothing.

A tremor travels through Ivan's nerve endings, his body subconsciously bucks at the stimulation, and Yao's hands, those gentle and talented hands, caress Ivan's cheeks, his hair, his neck, his scarf, every part of him he can touch without moving Ivan's head from its place on Yao's lap.

Why has it taken so long for the two of them to learn their human names? It sounds much more personal than their national titles. They sound closer.

Now if only Ivan could see. If only Ivan could speak.

“You can't leave me, aru! Not here, not now! Not again! Dammit, not again...” Yao's body shakes with sobs Ivan barely registers. Much to the Russian's horror, the feeling of hair against skin, cloth against skin, skin against skin, is fading.

Yao clings to Ivan through the seizures, tremors and light whimpers from a locked throat. The Russian can smell the salt in their tears even if he can no longer feel Yao's tears land on his cheeks.

“Don't leave me, aru! I never...I didn't get to tell you in this time, because I thought we would really escape, all of us together, and I would have told you as soon as we were safe and far from this wretched place!”

The salty smell, Yao's personal scent of rice and dumplings mixed with sweat and blood, both lose their pungency. Ivan can't tell Yao he's about to die. He can't tell him he'll miss him, or that he's sorry, or--

“Ivan, please! Wo ai ni! I love you! Please don't die, please... I love you. I can't do this on my own...”

Ivan's heart painfully stutters upon hearing Yao's confession, and it's only with the utmost will Ivan forces it to continue beating. He'll hold on as long as possible, just for his China. Yao deserves it, though the Chinese man can't possibly know Ivan still hears him. He has no idea when his sense of taste left him, but much to his displeasure, he can't feel or taste Yao's lips. He doesn't even know if the dark-haired man kisses him, he only wishes for it. He imagines the feeling of their lips meeting, he imagines the taste of rice overwhelming him.

A million images flash across his mind's eye in a matter of seconds, the proverbial “life flashing before your eyes” moment, yet instead of seeing his past, he sees what could have been. Yao under the moonlight, under cherry blossoms, under him. Ivan hears Yao's cries and moans, he feels the pleasure, he sees the love. Yao stands in the deepest snows of Siberia, sits in front of the roaring fire, leans his head against Ivan's shoulder, presses a tender kiss to his neck.

“O-Oi! D-Don't stop b-breathing, aru! Ivan! Wake yourself up! They can't be far now! England can save you, he has to! I can't do this without you, I can't. I can't...” Yao repeats the words in semblance of a mantra. Ivan hopes he'll say those three words he's always wanted to hear from the other man one more time before his ears stop working.

“D-Dammit...Dammit all! We should never have come here! We...I-I'm sorry...I love you, Ivan. I love you.”

Yao's voice echoes in his ears, though he hears no more from the Chinese nation. Ivan feels his body heat dropping, feels his heart slowing, feels his breath catch in his throat and refuse to move. His final moments consist of suffocating on his own breath and saliva, unable to clear his throat, unable to return the emotions he so longs to share with Yao. Ivan's head falls to rest against Yao's blood- and tear-soaked cheek, violet eyes no longer bright with life or joy. Yao screams into Ivan's red hair – he screams and screams and refuses to release Ivan's corpse when America and England finally arrive too late -- much too late.

While the Thing is the most obvious enemy in the damnable mansion, time is no more innocent a mistress than the heinous monster. She'll laugh and taunt the ragged nations even while she turns time back once more...


End file.
